


The General's Wife

by WinterSpells



Category: RWBY
Genre: But at least you know it'll be good, F/M, I may mention or write about characters but will forget to tag, I'm not sure how this story will end, I'm sure if you're here, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, So lets get into it, Stalking, You probably know the drill by now, this is a work in progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:28:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27220486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WinterSpells/pseuds/WinterSpells
Summary: She was sad. She was angry. Most of all; however, she was curious.Apparently, Mrs. Ironwood wasn't who she appeared to be.
Relationships: Glynda Goodwitch/James Ironwood
Kudos: 2





	The General's Wife

**Author's Note:**

  * For [falconstories](https://archiveofourown.org/users/falconstories/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Church Bells](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27219985) by [falconstories](https://archiveofourown.org/users/falconstories/pseuds/falconstories). 



> I'm about to ruin this man's whole career.

She hadn’t found out the news until she entered his office. In one hand she held a cup tray, one steaming black coffee for her, and an iced coffee with extra sugar for him. In the other hand, she had a thick file; the one he’d asked her to bring for their usual morning meeting.

There were men in his office with boxes, packing up his things.

They were giving her pitying looks.

“He passed away last night,” the tall one, Robert, said.

“Yeah. Too many pain pills,” John, or who she assumed was John, mumbled.

“It’s sad knowing that a great person who was actively changing the world fell so low,” she didn’t know his name, “if only he’d said something sooner.”

She calmly sat the tray and file on his desk and asked them to leave.

They did so reluctantly.

Once she heard the door click shut behind her, she slowly made her way around the desk and sat down in his chair.

It was only then that she realized she’d never done that before.

“You miserable piece of shit.”

Her harsh words sounded loud in the otherwise silent office.

Lowering her head, she stared at her shaking hands.

She wanted to cry. She wanted to scream. She wanted to throw and destroy anything that she could get her hands on; she wanted to beat the shit out of someone.

She didn’t do any of those things.

Instead, she sat in his chair and continued to stare. She willed her hands to stop shaking, but they wouldn’t.

Clenching them into fists helped, but it didn’t entirely solve the problem.

She needed a minute. Maybe two.

“How dare you do this to me; and on a Tuesday, no less.” 

Typical. Just typical.

She took in a deep breath, then several more.

That got her up and moving.

His office was empty and bare within the hour.

Her coffee was cold.

Fitting, if anything.

So was the note.

She had avoided it for as long as she could, but that burning knowledge at the back of her skull, telling her, warning her, of which drawer it was in.

He had told her where to find it eight months before.

“My death wasn’t an accident.”

She knew he was paranoid, especially after what happened to him, but this...she wasn’t even sure what to make of it.

She left his things in his office for the others to deal with, and went home.

His funeral was a week later.

“How are you holding up?” Clover asked. His eyes were red.

“Do I give the answer you want or the answer I’m thinking?”

“They’re the same thing.”

He always knew how to make her laugh through her nose.

“Then I’m not.”

He nodded, giving her shoulder an awkward pat.

“At least you can admit it.” 

How could she tell one of her closest colleagues, dare she say friend, that she wasn’t mourning for him, but the man he used to be?

“I didn’t get to say goodbye.”

The glance he gave her was sympathetic.

“Now’s your chance.”

He walked with her up to the casket, his hand on the small of her back.

It wasn’t enough, but it had to be.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

The service started a few minutes after that.

She tuned a majority of it out in favor of staring blankly at the floor.

It wasn’t long, or at least it didn’t feel that way.

She leaned against the wall at the back of the room when it was time for people to shuffle around to talk or leave entirely. Clover came and stood next to her again, and next to him was a man she didn’t know, but they were talking quietly amongst themselves.

Everyone looked sad and distraught. She wondered if that were true.

She looked up towards the front to see a woman giving the widow her condolences.

She’d only met the general’s wife a few times; all of them brief and leaving little to no impression.

He bragged about her, loudly and often. He claimed she was everything he’d ever wanted; that any man could ever want. She was his favorite prize.

Then the accident happened.

She watched the woman nod her head, then she turned to leave.

The widow’s lips quirked into a smile. Within an instant, her expression sobered back to tear-filled eyes and sadness.

She knew if she had blinked or looked away, she would have missed that look entirely. The widow looked joyful for that split second; as if she were at a birthday party, rather than her dearly departed husband's funeral.

Maybe it was time to look into the note more seriously.

“I’m leaving.”

Clover blinked at the abruptness of her tone.

“You aren’t going to give your condolences?”

“You can give them for me.”

“But-“

“I won’t be at work. I need time alone.” 

What she needed was a cigarette.

It would have been easy to go smoke in her car, or literally anywhere else, but the urge was far too powerful to ignore, which is how she ended up at the back of the building, hands in her pockets, and the stick hanging from her lips.

It was cold and dreary outside. It reflected her mood perfectly.

“That’s a bad habit, you know,” the widow creeped out of the shadows and nodded towards the cigarette, “it’ll kill you far more quickly than anything else.”

“Didn’t you know that’s the reason people start smoking in the first place?”

The widow tilted her head to the side, eyeing her wearily.

“Suicidal?”

“Realistic.”

They stared at each other.

“You were James’s assistant.”

Her eyebrow twitched.

“In a manner of speaking.”

“I knew I recognized you from somewhere.”

Hm.

“Why are you here?”

A sigh.

“I needed some air. All those people...I understand where they’re coming from, but it’s too much.”

“I know what you mean.”

“Is that why you’re out here?”

“I guess you could say that.”

The widow raised an eyebrow.

“Are you being vague on purpose?”

She didn’t know how to answer that.

“You better go back inside before they start wondering where you’ve gone.”

The widow looked reluctant, but nodded.

“Thank you for being here. I know he would have liked that.”

He probably wouldn’t have.

“Good night, Mrs. Ironwood.”

She watched her flinch on the way back inside.

There was something more to her, wasn’t there? 

There always was.

The question remained: what could it be?

She was determined to find out.


End file.
